


A Little Death

by vodkabite



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Alpha Bobo Del Rey | Robert Svane, Alpha Nicole Haught, Alpha Willa Earp, Alpha Wynonna Earp, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Bikers, Alternate Universe - No Curse, Biker Nicole Haught, Established Waverly Earp/Nicole Haught, F/F, Mikshun is a Dog, Non-Graphic Smut, Omega Doc Holliday, Omega Waverly Earp, Photographer Waverly Earp, Tiny bit of worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-24 14:54:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13813524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vodkabite/pseuds/vodkabite
Summary: She’s perfectly imperfect.Hair always messy and mussed, but always intentional and purposeful; despite the flecks of dirt and even a small smattering of blood, there’s never a piece of lint lingering on her clothes or even a stray thread curling from the patches of her jacket.She’s perfectly imperfect.Except when they’re together.





	A Little Death

**Author's Note:**

> Quick little oneshot, based around green--tea--rex's Tumblr [post](http://green--tea--rex.tumblr.com/post/147850097033/wayhaught-au-biker-nicole-and-photographer-waverly) about Biker Nicole and Photographer Waverly. I think I leaned more towards the biker aspect instead of the photography, oh well...
> 
> Title and lyrics from [The Neighbourhood's "A Little Death"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bRfMwoIizTQ).
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

 

 _Vacancy was lit, the guests were checking in_  
_The concierge was cold,_

 

 

 

“What I like about photographs is that they capture a moment that's gone forever, impossible to reproduce," a famous quote from Karl Lagerfeld that Waverly follows closely, day in and day out. Finger poised on the shutter release, ready to snap a timeless photo. A single swan sitting at a still pond, a snowy landscape in the dead of winter or a bed of wild roses blooming on the first day of spring.

But there is nothing like this, waking up at the crack of dawn, legs tangled up in silken sheets with  _her_.

Waverly loves Nicole in the early morning.

Loves how her hands, despite being half asleep, reach out for her like an anchor. The brunette’s fingers pushing against the top of the alpha’s palms, pressing her fingers into the skin. Nicole’s hands are smooth, slightly calloused from all of her years on the road, reverent and gentle in the way they touched her. Practiced and rhythmical, treating her like she was delicate and soft. But by no means fragile; reinforced by the sting she feels when the hem of jeans presses into her bruised hips during the day. Or when she runs her fingertips over the imprint of teeth on her shoulders in the shower.

And yet, it’s this right here, eyes heavy and half lidded, honey-gold irises darkened behind an eclipse of long awaited exhaustion, that Waverly aims.

“Smile baby,” a soft whisper, straddling the redhead with the camera ready.

And she does, lazy and sweet, languidly throwing an arm over her face and Waverly treasures every moment of it: the way Nicole’s auburn hair splayed about like a fiery halo around the pillows, the sunlight filtering in through the blinds, lining patterns on her skin. Highlighting the wolf on her wrist, it’s body spiraling into forest and a river before reaching the trees on her biceps and the flock of birds soaring above over her shoulder.

Waverly snaps a photo.

And once the camera is safely put away on the nightstand beside the bed, Nicole flips her over. Settling between her legs and supplying a steady stream of kisses against the omega’s neck. Hands,  _her fucking hands_ , melding around her body beautifully. The same way they do around her own, around the necks of beer bottles at Pussywillows, the hilt of switchblades or a baseball bat, the trigger of a gun. The same hands that made her feel so full of life, were also capable of taking one.

Hands that made Waverly fall apart countless times with a simple curl, wrapped around her own delicately like she was made of glass—how easy they cradled her throat, possessive and commanding, “Mine.”

With a single breath, “Yours.”

 

 

 

 _The water pipes had mold all over them_  
_The room was fit for two,_

 

 

 

She’s perfectly imperfect.

Hair always messy and mussed, but always intentional and purposeful; despite the flecks of dirt and even a small smattering of blood, there’s never a piece of lint lingering on her clothes or even a stray thread curling from the patches of her jacket.

She’s perfectly imperfect.

Except when they’re together.

No one — she laughs to herself, taking advantage of the quiet between the morning and the sudden lunch rush of Shorty’s — would believe her that the alpha is a gentle soul instead of the hardened and trigger-happy ones she was usually surrounded by. Much like her own sisters who turned their old homestead into a clubhouse and religiously held meetings there every Sunday. The wariness and aloofness she held for the world and even her fellow members, would mellow for Waverly. Warmth and love in the way she looked at the omega.

The adoration in Nicole’s eyes whenever Waverly would walk around the house in her colors. Whenever she would silently watch the omega sing to herself in the kitchen, swaying her hips to the radio or whatever song she played from her phone. Evident when she would tease the brunette, a low growl, hands sliding up the miles of smooth skin that were her legs.

Tempt her. “You ready?”

There’s always a smirk. “Are you?”

 

 

 

 _The bed was left in ruins_  
_The neighbor was knocking, yeah_  
_But no one would let him in_

 

 

 

In another life she would’ve been the bane of her existence.

There’s something alluring about the beautiful figure adorned in tattoos and black leather, scars and bruises worn as proudly as the colors on her back, the sculpted figure of a one-percenter biker; a criminal. Synonymous with violence and kinship, Waverly chides herself, constantly overthinking and oversimplifying.

Worried beyond measure when she receives a text message:  _heading out._

Curt and straight to the point. There’s never a follow up like,  _I’ll see you when I get back_  or even a definite time of when she would. Nothing to indicate that she’d ever return, leaving Waverly to pace back and forth. Wearing a hole into the floorboards of Shorty’s afterhours, gnawing her thumbnail down until the skin is raw and bleeding.

Chrissy comes by to offer support and a shoulder to learn on, cry on, when she can. Rubbing soothing circles on her back when the sound of a motorcycle cruising down the street, engine loud and rattling the rafters, gives her false hope.

When Nicole finally does return home, walking through the front door of Shorty’s, sweaty, dirty, pale skin marred with purplish bruises. A faint cut over the bridge of her nose and beneath her left eye. Usually Wynonna is there, just as battered and beaten, proudly clapping Nicole on the shoulder. Praising her for a job well done and regaling Waverly with tales of their hectic night, adrenaline still coursing through her veins.

But when her sister isn’t there, looking to have her cuts cleaned and share a drink with her the auburn-haired alpha, Nicole melts; the adrenaline having died down hours ago. In the bathtub, water filled to the brim, splashing out with the slightest movement, she sits quietly. Waverly washing the grime out of her hair, breath quivering when she pulls her fingers back from between the alpha’s damp tresses and finding blood underneath her nails.

If she didn’t love her, she’d hate her with every fiber of her being.

 

 

 

 _Touch me, yeah_  
_I want you to touch me there_

 

 

 

“I want you to beg, baby.” She feels special doing this, voice calm and collected; lips a perfect pout just a hair’s breadth from the alpha’s hardened cock.

Nicole Haught would never beg. The Banditos don’t understand that word. Or any really, that suggested weakness. Begging is beneath them. As such, Nicole is expected to stand tall at all times, to never show fear and to always be prepared to fight for it. Not some teenager with her throat dry, hands balled into fists at her sides, heart racing against her chest.

“Oh fuck,” desperate and pleading; every inch of the alpha rippling with tension. Hips involuntarily thrusting forward for more. “Waves,  _please_.”

But here she was, pliant and malleable. Willing to be shaped and molded into whatever form Waverly wanted. The ball was in her court and she ran with it. Sleek and graceful, she toys with Nicole. Taken to the edge, Nicole’s eyes roll into the back of her head. The alpha’s control wanes, pulled in every direction, she’s on the verge of snapping in two.

There’s a satisfied purr resonating from Waverly’s throat before she dips forward, sinking her mouth around the alpha.

Nicole would hate Waverly if she wasn't so in love with her.

 

 

 

 _Make me feel like I am breathing_  
_Feel like I am human_

 

 

 

Bobo’s voice is a rough and slow drawl in her ear—elated and sincere—“our little spitfire is getting married.” Joined by the roar of the club’s cheers; Rosita is getting married to Valdez and a round of drinks on president’s dime leads to another roar of happiness from the tattooed, leather studded crowd. Waverly smiles, congratulating the bartender who now shines brighter than any star in the night sky. A hug here, a friendly kiss on the cheek to both soon-to-be bride and groom there, “I’m so happy for you two!”

Her mind ultimately drifts, catching a glimpse of the auburn-haired woman who now served as a pallbearer for Wynonna’s inebriated form (despite everyone’s best efforts to keep their vice president from getting into the good stuff). Waverly thinks about  _them._  Her thumb rubbing circles along the smooth, empty space on her ring finger.

She wonders what it would be like to wear a long white dress, hold a bouquet of flowers in her hands with a sheer white veil hanging over her face all for Nicole to flip it back and kiss her like it was their first time again. But a quick glance towards Bobo and Willa with the newly engaged couple reminds her of all the reasons why she could never have a shimmering gold ring on her finger without it being marred by blood, sweat and dirt.

The ring wouldn’t be a symbol of their love and forever, just another milestone in their lives marked by fond memories and cheesy reminders of Wynonna’s best man speech. No, Nicole’s obligation to Waverly would always come second, the colors on her back symbolizing a deeper pact. One a couple lines from a silly, tear-soaked vow couldn’t hold a candle to. Waverly touches the hollow of her throat without realizing it, thoughts of a white picket fence becoming a fever dream when several members like Stevie and Jack and take pictures with Valdez.

“Don’t think too much about it,” a low voice says from beside her. It’s Doc’s and she doesn’t have to turn around to know that he’s regarding her with pity in those cobalt blue eyes of his. The older omega always looked at her with this softness, as if he knew.

“Hard not to, you know?” And he does. Has so for years; hitting the road with the club, going wherever the taillights of Wynonna’s chopper would lead him. Settling and uprooting at the slightest command.

Doc grabs a bottle of Jack Daniels and places it front of Waverly. “I don’t drink.”

“Neither did I,” he grabs another from underneath the counter and untwists the cap. “Focus on the now, spend enough time thinking about tomorrow and you’ll come to hate us. Hate her.”

 

 

 

 _Dancing through the night_  
_A vodka and a sprite_

 

 

 

Each day could be the last, so Waverly takes pictures of Nicole often, as if she’d somehow forget what the alpha looked like. Forget the way she would dutifully clean her bike in the garage, knees on the tarp, wiping her brow of sweat and in her turn dirtying it with grease. But it’s adorable, the way Nicole would affectionately call her the bike her “baby”, how she’d tease Calamity Jane whenever the fickle cat would come in looking for attention only to squeal and run away at the first sign of water being thrown her way.

The way Nicole would quietly pose with the bike when she knows Waverly is there, standing in the doorway of the garage, camera ready. The brunette ignores the cocky tilt of her hips when the alpha turns around, pretending to lean casually against her precious motorcycle.

Waverly takes several photos.

“I’ve got something to do later.” She takes several more, closeups, focusing on Nicole’s face for the chance that one day, she’ll never be able to see it again.

“Okay…” Her voice is empty; gone were the days where she had the strength to stay strong. Able to nuzzle her face into the redhead’s firm, yet soft chest for warmth and not this useless pursuit to cling onto her memory. She has no plans of putting up a tough front, hiding her fears like the other wives and girlfriends who just shrug their shoulders. Or like Doc who spends so much time in Shorty’s when Wynonna’s gone, he feels like he can’t function unless he’s staring down the inside of a bottle of whiskey.

The doorbell rings and Nicole wipes her hands on an already grease stained rag before heading out of the garage. Waverly doesn’t follow, at least not yet, staring at the almost cleaned motorcycle for just a little bit longer; imprinting the image of it and all the memories that come with it to her mind.

Walking out of the garage and towards the living room, she catches glimpse of Valdez on the other side of the front door just before it closes, Nicole turning around with a large box in her hands. It’s a simple cardboard box and Waverly immediately assumes it to be the worse. Whatever’s inside, having something to do with whatever “job” Wynonna and Bobo have sent her to do.

“Baby, come here please.” A brow is raised, she takes a tentative step forward. Sitting on the couch opposite of Nicole, the coffee table, and most importantly, the box in between them. Everything about it doesn’t sit well with Waverly, she knew the gist of what the Banditos did for income, being inconspicuous serving as a major part of how they worked. A giant box, especially with Nicole’s palms flat against the top cover, is a bit tactless for drug peddling and arms dealing.

“What’s in the box, Nic?”

“A surprise,” There’s a smile on Nicole’s face. The giddiness, the alpha resembling a puppy more than the leather wearing biker she is supposed to be. “I know you get worried when I’m off doing whatever it is I have to do, and since CJ is getting up there in years, I wanted you to have a little something. In the event that I… don’t come back one day.”

Her voice is softer now and she takes her hands off the box. Waverly leans forward and removes the top cover. She finds the bottom of the box is covered with a blanket, a strange gift, even more so as the blanket is slightly moving. Peeling it back, she sees a small, newborn puppy softly snoring. She’s speechless, looking between the little one and Nicole, not sure which of the two is really real.

Picking the small dog up, she cradles it in her arms where it greets her with a yawn and curls up into a tight ball against her.

“His name is Mikshun.”

 

 

 

_A glimpse of the silhouettes  
A night that they never forget_

 

 

 

“Waves check this out,” Rosita and Beth call, but Waverly already knows what it is. The club had bestowed upon the blushing newlywed her own jacket. Much like the rest of the wives, girlfriends, boyfriends and husbands, it had the club name emblazoned across the upper back, their logo in the middle, the diamond to it’s left with 1% denoting that the beta was indeed apart of the group’s criminal activity much like Doc is. Only difference is instead of having _Purgatory,_ their chapter patch that all the legitimate members wear, Rosita’s jacket says _Property of Valdez._

She knew this was coming. Having seen some of the “old ladies” and “old boys” of the club sport the patch proudly, it was only a matter of time before Rosita received her own. Despite it meaning that she belonged to someone, as though she was an object to be owned, it separated the beta from the rest of non-alphas. Separated her from the likes of Stephanie Jones, one of the women in the club Waverly knew to be labeled as a “pass around”.

There isn’t much to say about Stephanie that isn’t followed by shock, and abject disgust and confusion. The blonde met the club during their stint in Montreal at some bar Bobo knew the owner of. While there, she became enamored with the whole lifestyle and wanted to be apart of it, but with no prior connections, she had to start from the bottom and work her way up.

She wasn’t given her own colors, no leather jacket, no leather vest. All she was given was the club’s attention, their protection, and the expectation to serve everyone’s needs. Whether on her knees on her back, she had to be ready whenever they wanted it. It’s expected of all betas and omegas who want to join, be a part of this lifestyle.

Alpha on the other hand serve a much different role. New bloods are trained to do whatever job the higher ups tell them to do. Alpha kinship is strong amongst them, loyalty to your fellow alpha taking precedence above all else. Even the partner you swore to cherish and protect, the one you took vows in front of a minister, ‘till death do you part, is _second_.

The ceremony was beautiful, taking place on the homestead with Rosita and Valdez at the center; all smiles and nervous laughter. The hundred or so guests in attendance, a sea of black leather and tattoos, were now spread out all over the spacious property. Eating, drinking, playing party games, but as Waverly snaps a photo of Rosita wearing her new jacket, the color clashing with her wedding gown, she can’t help but stare at the window of Willa and Bobo’s bedroom.

A full forty-five minutes since Rosita and Valdez had said “I do”, and the beta’s husband had yet to come down from whatever meeting they were holding up there.

Neither had Nicole.

It’s only when they’ve reached the full hour mark that they finally emerge from the homestead. Nicole having to pull away from Wynonna who wouldn’t squeezing her arm around the redhead’s neck; god forbid there be a day where her sister doesn’t annoy her girlfriend. Once Wynonna’s attention turns to Doc, Nicole makes a beeline towards Waverly.

Hands on her waist, chin resting on her bare shoulder. Soft and vulnerable, the side of Nicole only she knows is there. Honey-golden eyes warm, open and honest; the slight twinge of regret swimming in their reflective pools. “Dance with me.”

And Waverly obliges without hesitating, secured perfectly in her hold, the crown of her head tucked right underneath the alpha’s chin. As they start to sway, she gives one last look at the newlyweds. “The wedding was beautiful.”

Holding the brunette close, Nicole whispers against her ear, “Ours will be different.”

 

 

 

_Touch me, yeah  
I want you to touch me there_

 

 

 

“Bite me…” There isn’t a hint of playfulness to her tone, nor the sound of begging underneath the husky murmur. Instead, there’s a seriousness that sends Waverly’s heart soaring.

It starts with a kiss, slow and languid, tentative. Much like the first. Neither in a hurry to break away or escalate further. Nicole’s colors fall to the floor first, a blasphemous act that only heightens when she steps over to pick the brunette up. Soles of her boots pressing it into the floor further—Waverly gasps—there’s even a twist before the leather jacket is kicked away.

_You come first._

Nuzzling against the skin of Nicole’s neck, Waverly takes a deep breath; tongue caressing the precious spot slowly, eager to taste, before being pulled away. The omega’s teeth closing in and splitting the skin, a single drop of the alpha’s blood striking her tongue like a bolt of lightning. Despite the searing pain, it is exquisite, Nicole visibly melts against Waverly’s touch. Purring endlessly as Waverly soothes the mark, pulsating with the newly formed bond. She can see everything, _feel everything,_ the omega is spellbound by the bright new world she meets with vivid colors and clear sounds.

Pulling away, Nicole puts a hand to the mark. Smile as bright as the sun. “Ow, did you have to bite so hard?” Nicole’s cheeks are flushed red, a pretty pink that soon fades when she crashes their lips together again.

There's a quip on her tongue, but it stays there as she slides her lips over the other woman’s. Her kiss—like always—has her brain fogged over. Teeth still tingling, tastebuds still singing from the single drop of blood. All she knows is  _her_ ; her touch, her lips, her taste. She doesn't want to know anything else, there is nothing else; just them and it's perfect.

This time, with Waverly curled against her chest, Nicole takes the photo.

 

 

 

_Make me feel like I am breathing  
Feel like I am human_

 

 

 


End file.
